


California Poppy

by damndamedrezi



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Origin Story, Religion, babys first kidnapping, i have not read faust im fakedeep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29761035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damndamedrezi/pseuds/damndamedrezi
Summary: An elderly librarian laments her age.
Relationships: Maxwell & Wickerbottom (Don't Starve), wickerwell if you squint
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	California Poppy

"Very good Thomas. Excellent enunciation. However, it is time your parents will want you home for supper." Wickerbottom told the young boy. The two sat across from each other in cozy armchairs near the front of the library.

"Thanks! Can't we read another chapter though?"

"I'm afraid not. It is not fair for the elderly to monopolize the time of the young."

"You don't Ms. Wickerbottom, I like to read to you. It makes you happy. And you used to read to me." She was quite proud he understood the meaning of 'monopolize' as well as the capacity for kindness, but she still needed to send him home. 

"I will not say it again Thomas. You need to head home, all the other children have left for the day."

"Ah okay Ms. Wickerbottom. Can we read more tomorrow?"

"Yes, we may dear." Wickerbottom saw the boy hand the smudged blue object back to her and she took it in her hands. She heard rustling noises as the boy gathered his things. She walked him to the door where they said their goodbyes. She watched until the blob of a boy blended with the tan road in her eyes. There was enough light out still for her to see him for a good while.

She returned inside and walked to her personal bookshelf behind the library counter. She carefully opened the book back up. She held it close to her face and she could make out a few words, mostly the 'the's, but ultimately anything she recognized was just due to familiarity with the text. She shut the book quickly then immediately chastised herself for the rough treatment of it.

She placed _Faust_ on the higher shelf with her favorite works and leaned down to grab one of her own journals. Her back ached from the action, like it had for a long time, like it would forever, she remorsed. She ran her hand across the journals. She picked up the green one with the diagonal claw mark on the upper part of spine. Knowledge was a weapon, even against mountain lions.

She sat at her desk and opened the book. It was full of her drawings of Midwest flora and fauna. Notes and commentary on how the plant life changed through the seasons and how the lives and behaviors of the little animals filled every page. The vague shapes were enough to jog her memory and she closed her eyes. She could see the sun beat down on the plains and feel a mild sunburn on her arms from it. The river babbling idyllically while its rushing water sparkled in her eyes. She saw a carefully camouflaged squirrel sneaking away as she heard the rustling of creatures that wished to remain undetected. She had done her best to worship the Lord through cataloguing His creations. She opened her eyes and carefully turned through the pages until she got the pressed leaves and flowers. She placed firmer pressure on flowers than was proper, the oils on her hand would be bad for the longevity of the flowers. But she missed being out in the field, so badly, she traced her finger around the edge. California Poppy? She could tell the flower was orange, but where was the vibrancy? She would never see vibrant colors again.

Copies of her drawings sat in encyclopedias and on the desks of senators as evidence of the need for more conservation programs. There was still so much more to do, yet work was done for her. So many of the wonders of the land had yet to be documented. And Wickerbottom wanted to be the one to do it, the feeling of paper being transmuted to knowledge under her hands was sorely missed. 

The library was empty, and she doubted anyone would enter on a Sunday evening. She ought to go home, but the journey was tough on her bones and with Cynthia's passing...the library was a more welcoming place. Her dear Cynthia had accepted aging and death with grace and beauty, why couldn't she? She'd read so many stories of the inevitability of old age, she did think she was ready for it. She'd grappled with it extensively and even at some points come to terms with it. But, the nagging notion of knowledge and truth to be discovered made that feeling short-lived whenever it came.

She sighed deeply and her body slumped, grieving. She shut the book. She would take no chances on any tear stains. She turned on the radio at her desk, not necessarily wanting anything, but what else was she to do? Radio dramas were pedestrian and lacked any rationale but to titillate, but perhaps she could find a quality novel being read. No such luck, the only thing playing was a lively ragtime tune. Strange.

Her thoughts drifted, she kept that as far away from thoughts of aging as possible. She had that much mental discipline, or would that leave her soon too? She wondered if she would be able to sleep tonight. All the lost souls she'd let sleep in the library after closing, and she would now be one. She thought in particular, and rather strongly for some reason, about poor William Carter, a goofy starving artist with desire for knowledge. A good man, even if she'd nearly thumped him once for sneaking in a bottle of _alcohol_ into her library. They had written to each other occasionally after he became more stable. She hadn't heard from him some time when she saw his name on the town bulletin board listed among the dead from the earthquake.

"My dear Agnes, how have you been?" asked the voice of said man. His figure appeared in front of her, even more blurry and shadowy looking than most people.

She stood, every muscle in her body tensed. She hadn't heard him come in. Was dementia to take her this swiftly? Or was she being called to the Lord? Why not by her mother or Cynthia?

"William. You're dead." she stated.

"Not quite, dear. Though, call me Maxwell," he said his stage name with an edge. "I figured it's been awhile, and I wanted to repay you for your kindness all those years ago."

"I told you that you I need no physical repayment."

"Just 'to treat the whole world with love and respect'," he said in a mocking tone. She didn't think William ever truly understood her moral lectures, but she didn't think he held them in such contempt either. "I have very little capability for that, sorry to say. But," he paused, "I can help your problems."

"You can help the schools?" she said, giving away a twinge of excitement. He couldn't exactly help with any of her other problems.

He sighed loudly and grabbed her hand with a gloved one suddenly. He was that close? The gaps in perception made Wickerbottom suspect this was all indeed a hallucination. He brought her hand to the side of his face.

"I don't need glasses anymore, do I?" he told her. She moved her thumb gently across his face, under his eyes. So cold. But no glasses. "I can fix your vision as well."

"How?" she asked skeptically but quickly.

"You want to know why when you don't even know all I'm offering you?"

She took her hand back. "I have a number of questions, Maxwell," she said his name pointedly. He didn't respond immediately (William was prone to nervous pauses) so she asked, "What else are you offering?"

"To fix the pain in your joints, so you can run through the hills again."

"The majority of my hill running experience is away from closed-minded individuals."

Maxwell laughed, she supposed it was meant to be patronizing but she could hear some nervousness. "I know you still would enjoy the ability Agnes. I can give you health and the ability to live a long time."

"Certainly. Would you care to finish explaining the terms of me getting this?"

"You think I want something in return? Other than repaying you like I've said, I just hate to see such a keen mind waste away. Your mind has so much to give, yet your body fades away more and more each day. Am I wrong?" She had to recompose herself, she didn't want to show fear to man or hallucination.

"Quite correct," she admitted, becoming more amenable.

"And, to top it all off I have an extra gift. A world, never seen by human eyes, with queer, unusual, mind-bending, and maddening creatures and ruins. All for you discover and meditate upon."

"Would this damn me to hell?"

Another laugh, no nervousness. "Debatable. But wouldn't it be worth it?"

Was this truly a demon? Even folktales had to have some underlying truth. Demons could be real, or she could be suffering from a stroke. Did it matter? She'd been told she was an agent of the devil for everything from rejecting slavery to refusing marriage while practicing her grandmother's medicine. She had spent her life acting according to the Golden Rule, she would let her Father judge how well she had done. Let her have this, let her catalogue the Lord's creations, let her continue her work. "Indeed."

"Excellent. I'm holding my hand out to you dear."

She moved her hand in front of her until her fingers touched an open palm. She procrastinated by tracing her fingers along the large boney and icy palm. William wasn't that cold.

"Having second thoughts?"

No, she was not. She grasped the hand. Her vision was restored like a blast of fireworks. Whatever was before was not William, but a creature of shadows. There were similarities, like the lithe figure, the strong jaw, the handsome nose, but the lips that used to speak so softly were eclipsed by a terrifying maw of sharp teeth. They clicked as they opened to let out a cackle. She didn't have much time to take in more information before shadows surrounded her and the vision she bartered for turned to black.

A knock rapped on the door. "Ms. Wickerbottom! Ms. Wickerbottom! Do you need a walk home?" yelled a man from the other side. When he got no response, he walked into the library. He was visibly concerned for the old librarian, but he found no trace of her but a fresh golden poppy laying in an open book.

**Author's Note:**

> oh wicker, i don't think youre gonna be cataloguing the lord's creations
> 
> thinking about writing a series of stories for characters with unknown bargains into the constant


End file.
